The Lone Firefly

Anonymous Writer

His mind churned, thick with shadows of thought,
reaching, stretching, groping for the shape of an idea
just beyond touch. Each time he grasped,
the thought slipped, spiraling, whirling—
a merry-go-round of almosts, of nearly-there.
His hand would close around air, fingers tightening,
only to open on emptiness.

It felt like standing alone in fog, the night heavy,
dense and frigid, a single lamplight casting faint halos.
Somewhere beyond, a lone firefly danced,
its flicker brief, pulsing, as if caught in its own search.
The cold air cloaked him; he could no longer
tell his breath from the mist that swirled,
the darkness swallowing all but that tiny flame.
It would flare, vanish, and reappear,
its glow a teasing shimmer he could not hold.
He reached, grasped, drew his hand near,
and again opened his fingers to nothing.

Still, he waited, wondering if patience,
stillness, might bring him closer,
might let him catch the rhythm of its flight.
So he stood, unmoving, biding, then reached out again.
Grasped. Drew his hand in close.
Opened his fingers: only shadows remained.

They say all is fair in love and in war,
but he questioned, if all were truly fair,
why would we fight? Perhaps it’s all a ruse,
fairness twisted to lead us astray.
Without respect, a war is a massacre,
without reverence, love becomes power’s game.
Or maybe he was wrong, maybe fleeting pleasures
were enough for most, as they whispered “loyalty over love.”
But he knew, somehow, that true love was the greater force.

And so, for a third time, he let fate have its turn,
logic a distant echo he no longer chased.
Grasp. He brought his hand close, held it, waiting,
and slowly opened his fingers. Only air.

His mind churned still, thick with shadows of thought,
a ceaseless search for that sliver of light,
for something that might at last stay within his grasp.